


A Moment in the Corridor of an Empty House

by TerraCherry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AO3 1 Million, Gen, His Last Vow, Missing Scene, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerraCherry/pseuds/TerraCherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A missing scene from Sherlock S3E3 'His Last Vow'. What happens in the 23-24 Leinster Gardens before Mary arrives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment in the Corridor of an Empty House

John stared at the crescent shaped perfume bottle on the table. Chill crept on his skin.  
“It’s Sherlock, John. Sherlock. John, you have to answer it,” Mrs Hudson insisted, holding out the mobile.  
“Where are you and what an earth are you doing?” John snapped into the phone.  
“Come to Leinster Gardens, quickly. 23 Leinster Gardens.”  
“Why? That’s where you are?”  
“I’ll explain here. Just come. And don’t tell Lestrade, or anyone else. It’s important.” Sherlock sounded dead serious.  
“Okay, fine, I’ll be there.” John hit the end call button and tried to ignore the thoughts shouting in his head.  
“Is he alright?” Mrs Hudson still stood there with the kettle in her hands.  
“Yes, I gotta go, don’t worry Mrs Hudson.”

John entered the eerie ex-house, now just an odd half of a building. There wasn’t much more than a bare, narrow corridor, old large leather chair and a small room on the left. And, to his surprise, electricity and working lamps. Wiggins was there but he just made a nod towards the corridor. At the end of it, Sherlock sat in a wheelchair eyes closed. Water dripped from the ceiling in irregular pattern.  
“Sherlock, I know you’re a nutcase but it’s beyond idiotic to be running around when you were shot only a few days ago!”  
Sherlock opened his eyes.  
“I’m fine. –ish.” He didn’t look fine-ish; he was drained of colour except reddish rims around his eyes, and when he rose from the chair it was painfully slow.  
“No, you’re—”  
“Not now. Listen, soon a little scene will play. Sit here and pretend to be me,” Sherlock interrupted in raspy voice.  
“Pretend to be you?”  
“Just... pop up the collar and mess up your hair a bit, I’ll turn the lights off.”  
John had a hefty stone in his stomach and all too loud suspicions in his head. He thought of calling it off and hauling his dramatic, pompous arse of a friend back to hospital where he should be, but ignoring whatever he had arranged might result in something worse, so he went along, gritting his teeth. He would play Sherlock’s little stage act and see. He raised his coat collar and ran fingers through his hair for a couple of times. Sherlock had told Wiggins to go out and turned back to John. Giving him an assessing look, he raised his hand but left it hover in the air, hesitant. It wasn’t his way to ask for permissions but now he searched John’s face for one. John shrugged and bowed his head a notch. Sherlock pushed his nimble fingers into John’s short ashen hair, ruffling it up. His fingers were cold. He gave his attention to John’s hair, avoiding his eyes, and John couldn’t quite decode the pensive expression on Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t sure if it was wise for him to even try. One crisis at a time.  
“There,” Sherlock said softy.  
A train wheezed past and broke the moment.  
“Right,” he said, “sit there and whatever you hear, don’t get up until I turn the lights back on, okay?”  
“Okay,” John’s voice came out hoarse.  
“Stay put. Whatever you hear. Please?”  
“Yes, yes,” John replied anxiously.  
“Alright, anytime soon I’ll make a call and we’ll hear some truths.”  
“It’s your shooter, isn’t it.” It wasn’t really a question.  
“Yes.”  
“I’m not gonna like this, am I?” John whispered. Suddenly Sherlock looked very tired. Acrid smell wafted from somewhere. Drip, drip, drip-drop went the water.  
“No, I’m afraid not,” he replied, his voice betraying nothing of his own thoughts or feelings. John sat down. Sherlock walked down the corridor, turned off the lights and stepped out of sight. The shadows simmered.

**Author's Note:**

> I scribbled a draft of this last night when I couldn't sleep. There probably is a version or two or hundred of this already but I just really wanted to write a scene where it's Sherlock who ruffles John's hair in the empty house, so I did.


End file.
